


Back to Eden

by bluebeholder



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Dean Winchester Bears the Mark of Cain, Fallen Angel Castiel, Future Fic, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, No Dialogue, Season/Series 10 Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-28
Updated: 2015-11-28
Packaged: 2018-04-23 18:27:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 10,566
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4887166
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluebeholder/pseuds/bluebeholder
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's been millennia since they last saw each other. Castiel's convinced that he will never see Dean again. Dean's convinced that he will never see Castiel again. As far as they're aware, they hate each other. Seeing each other again would only result in a fight where neither of them would walk away.</p><p>They're both wrong. About everything, actually.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Of Bees and Old Friends

**Author's Note:**

> _“Maybe you could fight the mark for years. Maybe centuries, like Cain did. But you cannot fight it forever, and when you finally turn—and you will turn—Sam and everyone you know, everyone you love, they could be long dead. Everyone except me. I'm the one who'll have to watch you murder the world…”_  
>  —Castiel, 10.22

_"The Lord God said, "It is not good for the man to be alone...""_  
(Genesis 2:18)

  
  


He kept bees.

Here in this last strange wild place of the world, far from the prying eyes of man, the angel kept a sacred place for the bees. Meadows of wildflowers fed them, and they in turn pollinated his orchards and gardens. By his Grace, he kept the hives hidden from those who would do them harm. It was this way for uncountable years, and he saw no reason for it to ever change. 

His grief was unceasing, but it was no longer the passionate thing it had once been. Once, he had screamed his pain to the stars. Once, he had shaken the Earth itself with his loneliness. Now it was not so. It was a quiet sadness. His angelic family was gone, sealing the Gates of Heaven behind them. His Earthly family was long dead—with one exception, and it was that exception which had led him to this pass. Out here in the last edge of the wild, he was alone. With the passage of time he forgot how it was to speak any language but that of the humming bees. 

With the sealing of Heaven, he was no longer truly an angel. He was immortal, but he needed to eat and he could be hurt. His Grace was enough to repair small injuries and excite plants to growth, but that was all he had. It did not concern him as it might have, once. This was enough.

He forgot how to count time. The world moved endlessly, and without company there was no need to keep a schedule or go out of his way to mark the days. Some things, though, stood out in the unchanging tread of the years. For a time, the sky grew black. The rain clotted with ash. In the night, the horizon glowed with the orange of fire. He did not go out to discover why, only cleared the skies over the orchards and meadows so the bees could feed. There came a day when the Earth shook, and it did not bother him, except that he had to rebuild the rude cabin which was his only accommodation. When he no longer saw the contrails of airplanes in the sky, it was an unremarkable event. When he noticed that men no longer came to this place, it did not concern him at all.

The angel’s only task was to tend the bees.

It would have remained so until the stars burnt out, but one day a man knocked on the angel’s door.

***

The man wasn’t sure, really, if the angel would take him in. The angel might not recognize him, might turn him away for a stranger. Or the angel might recognize him, might try to kill him. The man almost hoped that the angel would succeed. He was tired.

He had walked over the Earth a hundred thousand times and had lost track of all the things he had seen and done. Since his brother died—so long ago that the man couldn’t remember his face—the man had no purpose but to wander. He walked across glaciers, crossed the oceans, stood his ground against sandstorms. In another life, they might have made him a god for his deeds. But this was his life, and there would be no one to remember him.

Now there were nightmares that crawled inside his skull, laughing in the darkness of his head. He had forgotten long ago how to speak, but some nights he almost thought that he could understand the words the nightmares spoke. When he slept, he dreamed of fire and blood, carnage and war. Sometimes he remembered a blazing blue fire, familiar and terrifying. The dreams kept him restless. He moved without purpose now, walking without any idea of where he went.

So he didn’t expect it when his feet took him to the angel’s door.

***

The angel’s jaw dropped when he opened the door. He stood for a moment without moving, staring at the man beyond the threshold. He knew the man—of course he did. He was the source of all the pain the angel had suffered for all these years. The angel could never forget him.

There he was: looking just the same as when they’d last faced each other over the deathbed of the angel’s dearest friend. His face was still young, his body unscarred. He was covered in dirt and grime, and the angel wondered for a moment how much of that filth had once been someone’s blood. The man wore nothing but a ragged pair of pants. The First Blade was still in his hand, and the angel couldn’t help flinching at the sight of it. 

He wondered if the man had come here to kill him. 

He wondered if he cared.

As he considered why the man had come, the angel noticed how the man stood. His head was bowed, his arms slack. The angel could see him breathing, as uneven as a frightened deer. The Blade wasn’t raised to strike. It simply dangled loosely from his grip. 

It was some strange combination of pity and nostalgia that made the angel step forward and reach out, offering his hand.

***

The man twitched when the angel’s hand came up. He expected a blow, but none came. There was only the tan hand hanging there steadily, waiting. He looked up slowly, studying the angel. He was the same as the man remembered, though something about his face seemed wearier than before. He wore a white shirt, with the sleeves rolled up past his elbows, and a pair of blue jeans. Nothing in his posture spoke of violence. His gaze was steady and cool. The man had to look away when he met those strangely shining eyes.

But he reached out and took the angel’s hand anyway.

The angel brought him into the small cabin. There was only one room, sparely furnished. The only detail the man really noticed was that the window had been paned with paper instead of glass. The angel gently pushed the man to sit down on the single chair beside the table, and went back outside. The man heard the sound of a water pump squeaking. 

Carefully, he set the First Blade down on the table. He took his hand away from the hilt. The sense of separation didn’t wrench like he’d expected, but neither was there relief. He didn’t want to kill now, but something in him was still tense. He thought about the angel and wondered how long it would be before he, too, was dead. With an abrupt growl, he shoved the Blade away from him. It skittered across the table and fell off, landing on the floor beside a cabinet.

He turned away from the Blade and stared resolutely at the door, waiting for the angel to return.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some necessary background:
> 
> Assumes an alternate ending of Season 10. Dean didn't kill Death, Sam was fine, Cas escaped Rowena's spell, the Darkness wasn't released. An unspecified amount of time (think on the geologic time scale, not on the scale of human history) has passed between that moment and when this fic begins. Sam lived to a ripe old age and died in his bed, happy, surrounded by friends, family, and his several dogs. That's when things went wrong. 
> 
> If you're wondering why this fic got an explicit rating, have patience. It will be a while. Sorry--these two wouldn't go for anything less than a slow burn. (I think my sister's precise words were, "I signed up to beta read porn, not have you stab me with feels.")


	2. Of Night and Memories

“ _…on the seventh day he rested…_ ”  
Genesis 2:2

 

The angel wasn’t really sure what he was doing. He was acting on instinct, really. He filled a pail with water and went back into the cabin, catching up a cloth as he went. The man was still sitting beside the table. His head snapped up when the angel came in, gaze fixed on him as soon as he entered. One of his hands curled into a fist. 

As slow as he could, the angel came forward and knelt down beside the man. He wetted the cloth and began to dab at the filth that covered the man’s skin. For whatever reason, the man did not resist. He sat passively as the angel worked, eyes fixed on the far wall of the cabin. Three times the angel had to change the water in the bucket as it turned brown from the dirt and dried blood.

The man never uttered a noise of protest. He was not, then, the man that the angel remembered. That man would have stormed at him to get away, that he didn’t need help. Or, if he had accepted the help, he would have cracked jokes and laughed to hide his discomfort. No, this was not the man that the angel had once known. 

By the time that the man was at least passably clean, the cabin had grown dim. For all the man’s muscles, he was undernourished. A faint memory pricked at the angel’s mind and he flushed at the sudden, unaccustomed burn of tears. Once, this man had full, smiling lips and a soft stomach, evidence of a life of relative plenty. Now his thin mouth was set in a scowl and his stomach was very nearly concave. A transformation that the angel should have perhaps expected, but no less strange. 

This, this he could help to fix. This he could act upon. He got to his feet and went to rummage about in the cabinet. 

***

The man jumped when the angel suddenly set before him an old, chipped plate with food on it. He looked up, searching for something in the angel’s face to give him a cue. The angel was leaning against the side of the table. He nodded slowly, never breaking eye contact, and gestured with an open hand to the plate. The man tried to still his breathing, hunching over the plate. He tried to believe that it wouldn’t disappear, but he couldn’t be sure.

It wasn’t meat, as the man might have expected. He had hunted many animals in his years, and he had long since taken to simply eating them raw. This was very different. Two thick slices of coarse, dark bread sat on the plate, practically soaked in honey that dripped into a golden puddle. Without taking all his attention off the angel, the man took a bite. 

At first he was almost overwhelmed. He had forgotten how sugar tasted, how it made his mouth feel, and suddenly he was ravenous. Forgetting that he was watched, the man devoured both slices of bread and all but licked the plate clean. Staring at the honey left on his fingers, he suddenly remembered that he had an audience. He looked up again at the angel.

There was no judgement in the angel’s face or posture. Actually, he’d relaxed a bit. He nodded again, as if to ask if the man enjoyed the food.

Tentatively, the man smiled.

***

That was the longest and strangest night the angel remembered.

He was used to the darkness and the silence. The angel wasn’t used to hearing another’s breathing. Sometimes, an animal might stay the night in the cabin, if it was injured and the angel was tending it. This was different, somehow. It was no animal, but a man, crouched on the narrow bed, eyes following the angel’s every move. 

Neither slept, but the angel felt no desire to leave the cabin. He sat at the table and sorted the seeds he had from his garden, wondering which he would plant this year. He didn’t know, really, why he kept these plants alive, but something drove him to it. Every year, he planted and tended and harvested, though he did not need to eat the bounty that the gardens produced. As he sorted, his hands stayed longer near the seeds for things like carrots and spinach, beets and squash, beans and potatoes. He didn’t often plant the heartier food crops, since something in his being rebelled against the waste of so much plenty. But this year…perhaps this year that plenty would not go to waste.

When he glanced up, sometimes he thought he saw something familiar in the man’s eyes, a strange fondness that lasted only seconds. Then it would fade back into the silent, angry confusion that otherwise marked the man. 

The angel was not afraid of the man, but the familiar stranger made him uneasy. There were too many moments when they seemed on the cusp of real recognition, but equally as many where they remained in opposition. And, though the man had been in the cabin for very little time, the angel had already become afraid of what would happen if he stayed longer.

***

The man wasn’t sure what to make of the angel. He’d hoped vaguely that he might be given…something, but this went beyond any of his expectations. The angel fed him, cleaned him, gave him the bed. Even if the man didn’t often need to sleep, it was a nice gesture. This was all strange. The way that the angel touched him was so unfamiliar—almost tender, nothing like the touches to which the man was used. It frightened him and made him angry.

But he hadn’t been able to deny that there had been something nice in it. For some reason, and the man couldn’t figure out why, the angel cared about him. Funny, because he the last time he remembered seeing the angel they had been about to kill each other. To show up here and be welcomed like this—weird, weird, weird. 

With all that spinning in his head, he sat and watched the angel work. He was methodical, sorting ancient seed packets into piles on the table. There was a furrow in his brow as he studied the seeds in each packet. Something about the little frown and the deliberate way his hands moved made the man smile. Sometimes, he looked up at the man, and the man always had to look away. 

He wondered how this would all look tomorrow, if the sun’s rising would call the blade back into his hand. 

He hoped it wouldn’t.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You can take your pick as to what Cas is afraid will happen. Ambiguity is intentional.


	3. Of Hard-Working Men

“ _The Lord God took the man and put him in the Garden of Eden to work it and take care of it._ ”  
Genesis 2:15

 

The man followed the angel when the light was enough to go out and see to the hives. The angel noticed how the man kept his distance, but hovered close enough to always have the angel in his sight. The angel moved slowly as he went about the day’s tasks. He looked over the hives, ensuring that the bees remained healthy. He went to the orchard and saw to it that the trees were free of pests. His work was easier because of his Grace. Some things simply didn’t need the work of hands, only the presence of the Divine if they were to flourish and grow. 

At some point during the day, he realized that the man was probably hungry, and led him back to the orchard. The first drop of fruit was past, but he’d meant to do some thinning anyway. There were a few low-hanging apples that would do. He picked them, and set them on the ground, backing away when that was done. The man didn’t fall on them ravenously, as the angel expected. The man picked them up slowly, and looked at them. The angel turned away.

A soft noise behind him made him turn around. 

An apple lay on the ground at his feet, the man standing now only a few feet away from the angel. He rubbed the back of his neck with one hand, looking off through the trees. 

The angel was befuddled. But he bent and picked up the apple anyway. 

As he turned to go back to his work, he might have sworn that he saw a small smile cross the man’s face.

***

The man followed the angel from field to field, through the groves of trees. The angel rarely looked at the man, but that was all right. It didn’t bother him. He felt like he was standing in lightning when the angel looked at him, and that was uncomfortable. It made his skin burn. Not like the mark did. Different. A different sort of pain. An old pain. 

He sat under a tree while the angel walked among the beehives. Though they landed on him, he never flinched or seemed to be bothered by it. The man tried not to kill every bee that went past. They were creepy: six legs, eyes too big, stingers that might not hurt but would certainly not be comfortable…he didn’t like the bees.

As the angel tended his plants, the man leaned against the crude fence and observed. The angel was tireless. He bent to touch leaves, humming tunelessly to the plants as he worked. There was a visible difference in the plants after the angel passed. They stood taller, leaves crisper and deeper in color. The angel’s presence alone seemed enough to make them healthier.

The old pump beside the cabin was practically rusted through, and some old instinct demanded that the man take the time to polish it. But he didn’t know how anymore, so he simply stood and watched while the angel brought buckets to sit beside the pump. It took a moment, but as the angel heaved the handle up and down the man realized that obviously the angel couldn’t water the gardens with his Grace. 

When the angel paused to switch the bucket under the pump for an empty one, the man stepped up and took hold of the handle. The angel froze, staring at him. The man ducked his head, biting his lip. He tried to look smaller, to look…well, to look less like a predator than he was. He folded his hands behind his back, shifting from foot to foot, willing the angel to understand. 

The angel took a step back, raising his hands a bit in a gesture of surrender. He was smiling again. The man looked down, away from the angel, and focused on the task at hand.

***

Whatever had happened to the man in all these nightmarish years, something of the person the angel remembered remained. This need to help—to work, to do something with his hands—that was familiar. 

The afternoon wore on. As the angel carried water to his garden, the man worked at the pump to bring up water to fill the buckets. Unlike the angel, he did seem to tire. Though it was slow, eventually the angel noticed that the man strained to move the rusting handle, and frequently paused to catch his breath. So he was still human. That was a small mercy.

By the time that night fell, most of the garden had been watered. The angel was nearly certain that it would rain in the next few days, and so he would not have to do this task again for a while. Hesitantly, he pressed a hand against the man’s shoulder. When the man looked up, the angel couldn’t help but notice how his eyes flicked from side to side. The man’s feet shifted, as if to run away, and the angel let go of his shoulder. 

He simply motioned toward the cabin, and together they went inside.

***

That night, the angel continued sorting his seeds. The man sat on the bed and watched again, wondering how the angel knew which seeds produced which plants. His arms ached pleasantly from the unfamiliar work today. Periodically, he flexed his arms, relishing the burn in his muscles. It was a different sort of burn than that acquired by fighting. 

It felt good to be here. It felt right, even though he was still floundering and basically had no idea what he was actually doing. The man resolved to help with the work, even if he wasn’t clear on what that work was supposed to be. Maybe the angel was as adrift as the man. If they were both lost—well, then, that made it a little better that the man was here. Maybe it wasn’t some kind of sin for him to be this near to an angel. 

He wasn’t hoping for anything, being here. He just…needed to rest for a while, that was all. The world was a lot bigger than he’d expected. Lonelier, too. This was better. This had to be better.

He noticed the angel watching him as the night wore on. His gaze wasn’t judgmental or critical, just curious. Whenever the man caught him looking, the angel would look away like a child caught looking at something he shouldn’t. When that happened, he was almost disappointed. The man wished that the angel would look again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So they're in a garden eating apples. Make of that what you will. :)
> 
> Angst incoming next chapter.


	4. Of Blue Jeans and Samulets

“ _…your eyes will be opened, and you will be like God, knowing good and evil…_ ”  
Genesis 3: 4

 

Without trying, they fell into a rhythm. 

At dawn, they would go out and water the gardens. The man would stand and pump water until the angel was finished, at which point they’d stop so the man might eat. Although the angel rarely broke bread with him, he took some delight in feeding this guest. At this point, his manners were improving, although as far as the angel could remember they had never exactly been good.

He was rapidly learning that a silent companion was better than no companion at all. There was something to be said for spending the afternoon with company. The man wouldn’t go near the bees, but he would stand near the hives and watch the angel work. Once or twice, the angel would hum something—some fragment of a tune he barely remembered from his old life—and looked up to see the man swaying slightly, eyes closed, in response. 

After he noticed that, he hummed more often. He wanted the man to respond, to stop staring at him with those haunted, hollow eyes, to wake up and be the man he’d once been. 

But perhaps there was too much blood on his hands for such a thing to even be possible. The angel could relate. After all, with the amount of blood on his own hands, he wasn’t sure he was still qualified to be an angel anymore.

***

One evening, the angel didn’t sit down to sort the seeds. The man took notice of the change in routine. He stood warily by the door. The angel crouched for some time in front of the chest, rummaging through the objects inside. He sometimes made noises of dismissal, small wordless mutters of frustration. The man folded his arms and leaned against the wall. The angel never looked up, in all the time he was digging. Somehow, that frustrated the man.

Finally he stood up with something in his arms. He turned and beckoned the man to come closer. The man held off approaching, trying to figure out what the angel held. It was a bundle of fabric. With a defeated sigh, he went to stand in front of the angel. The angel held out the fabric, leaning towards the man. He pressed the bundle into the man’s arms.

He looked at it, confused. It was a pair of denim pants, akin to those the angel wore. He had pants already. Was the angel so offended by the man’s clothes? 

Apparently. 

The man bit his lip and held the clothes out to the angel. The angel shook his head and pushed it closer to the man’s chest. Then he stepped back and cocked his head to the side. The gesture was so familiar that the man almost heard a name. It was right there, waiting for him to say it. He wanted to, but before he could catch it the thought slipped away. 

Tongue heavy in his mouth, he let it go. He fumbled with the rusted button on his tattered pants and grimaced as it finally slipped free of the hole, scraping his fingers. He let the wrecked fabric fall from his legs and stepped free of it, standing naked in the angel’s cabin.

***

Some part of the angel knew he should turn away out of modesty, but he just couldn’t make himself. He watched, instead, as the man struggled with the blue jeans. The jeans had gone soft with age, but at one time they had belonged to the man. The angel had borrowed them, but never had the chance to give them back. He could fix this, if he couldn’t fix the years of solitude.

The man scowled at the jeans, working his legs through them one at a time. His legs, though bowed, were as well-muscled as the rest of him, if not better for their constant work. In their day-to-day tasks, the man moved with grace. Yet the coordination required to simply put on a pair of pants had clearly been forgotten. The angel wanted to offer help. He had an inkling, though, that the man would not respond kindly to such attention. 

When the jeans were on, the man turned to the angel and looked at him with raised eyebrows and half-lidded eyes, mouth pursed and jaw set. His arms were folded tightly across his chest. The angel nodded, gesturing to the jeans. He smiled a little and half-shrugged. The man relaxed and stepped back to lean again against the wall, reaching up to rub the back of his neck with one hand. He looked away, staring at the door.

Without further interaction, the angel turned back to the chest. The items inside were out of order, now, and he wanted to keep them organized. They were all he had left of life before. They had to be kept safe.

Suddenly, there were footsteps. The man dropped to his knees on the other end of the chest, eyes fixed on the angel. The angel’s heart leaped when the man didn’t look away.

***

After a moment of silent staring, the angel looked down and began to move things around inside the chest. The man hesitantly moved to help, separating tangled strings and shoelaces from the thin golden chains of necklaces and ribbons of staticky plastic tape. He didn’t understand the detritus in this chest, but by the way the angel handled it, it was important. His hands cradled, caressed, soothed—treating the objects as if they were breathing beings.

So the man paid closer attention to it all. Broken pieces of vinyl, tied together with a scrap of faded plaid fabric. A battered, dented square of rusting metal with raised symbols barely visible on it: KAZ 2Y5. An ancient book, bound in leather that was close to falling apart with age and rough handling. A stack of photographs tied up with twine. A pile of bullets. A canister of salt. A ceramic angel figurine. A stack of scratched plastic cassette tapes. A book with a cross embossed on the cover. A battered, dismantled Walkman with odd meters and tiny red lightbulbs across the top. A mostly-melted, heavily tarnished silver flask. 

Every one of the objects felt familiar. He’d handled all of them before. He sat back on his heels and shivered. He was just about to get up and walk away when the angel held up something more. His face was carefully blank. The man reached out to take the pendant, untangling the string from the angel’s fingers. For a long moment, the man studied the pendant. It was an ugly little face, horned and scowling, gold paint almost completely removed by hard wear and time. 

He was just about to set it back in the trunk when something occurred to him. He thought of a face, and with the face came a name, and a voice, and a host of memories he’d pushed back for years. 

_Sam._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still just unending tension and angst. Isn't this ship delightful? 
> 
> Next chapter will see further changes in their relationship...


	5. Of Change

“ _Then the eyes of both of them were opened…_ ”  
Genesis 3:7

 

The angel had looked down, back to sorting through the scattered cassette tapes, to give the man a moment of privacy. When he looked up again at the cue from a strange noise, he dropped the tapes and almost panicked.

The man was curled in on himself, the pendant pressed to his chest with both hands. His bowed shoulders shook with choked sobs, and by the faint light of the beeswax candle burning on the table the angel could see the tears dripping off his face. 

Giving no thought at all to the consequences of this decision, the angel bolted around the chest to crouch beside the man. His hands hovered ineffectually over the man’s shoulders, not quite daring to touch. He made soft noises of comfort, or at least noises that tried to be comforting, and didn’t think he was doing very much.

After a time, by the point where the angel’s legs had begun to ache from the awkward position, the man straightened up. Although he still wept, mouth trembling and tears sliding down his cheeks, he’d schooled his face into a familiar expression the angel knew well. Dismay surged and the angel skidded backwards as the man rose to his feet and stalked out of the cabin.

The angel tried to settle the disappointment. As he fidgeted with the objects in the chest and the sorted seed packets, he reminded himself that it would not be a bad thing to be alone again. After all, he had done it for this long.

He couldn’t help admitting to himself that he didn’t want to be alone again.

***

In the dark of the woods, the man couldn’t see his hand in front of his face. His whole world was reduced to one burning point: the feeling of the pendant in his hand. When he tripped over some root and went sprawling to the ground, the man didn’t bother to get up.

How could he have forgotten _Sam?_ Stupid giant idiot, with his long hair and research obsession. He ate salads instead of meat like a normal guy. Better shot than the man had ever been. Better hunter, too. If it came right down to it, Sam was the better man altogether. Sam was the only reason the man hadn’t gone off the rails sooner. 

And somehow, between the peaceful silence of Sam’s deathbed and now, the man had forgotten all of that. 

Puppy dog eyes, prank wars, toy soldiers. All-nighters, salt and burn hunts, chasing ghosts and demons and the things that went bump in the night. Years in that car—oh, how had he forgotten Baby? The only two constants in his life: Sam and Baby. A brother and a long black car. 

He’d thrown it all away for…this. For blood and fire and a mark on his arm.

The pendant was cutting into his hand, where he gripped it too tightly. The dull throb of the cut brought him back, at least a little, to his senses. There was another constant, someone else left even if he'd lost everything else. He got up, still blind in the dark, and staggered back in the direction of the angel’s cabin.

***

The angel paced the cabin until he was convinced that he would soon wear straight through the rough floorboards. He couldn’t bring himself to open the door, to go and look for the man. If the man was gone, that was his decision, and the angel was not going to interfere. He knew better than that. 

How could he ever forget the last time he’d tried to interfere?

So he walked. Circle on circle on square, counting his steps for lack of anything else to do. It was a reminder that, if he was alone again, he wouldn’t be able to do what he’d done the first time. He could no longer pretend that he enjoyed loneliness. 

When the darkness faded, the faint light of dawn glowing gold through the window’s paper panes, the angel could hold himself back no longer. He headed to the door, wrenching it open with a crack. It sounded, he thought, like a gunshot in the silence. A great banging roar that announced violent intent and nothing more. 

He looked down. The man was sitting beside the doorframe, head resting against the wall. He was sleeping, eyes closed, face still blotchy with tears. The pendant hung around his neck, rising and falling on his bare chest with each breath he took. 

The angel, suddenly wobbly like a newborn deer, sat down on the other side of the door and waited. 

***

When the man woke up, it was to the gentle sun of early morning. He cracked his neck without opening his eyes, rolling his head on his shoulders to work out the kinks. He hadn’t forgotten last night. The pendant sat heavy on his sternum. His stomach was still in knots.

He shifted, stretching out his curled legs. The jeans were warm, he’d give the angel that much. He dragged a deep breath into his lungs. The cold morning air burned. It wouldn’t shock him if the angel turned him away this time, threw him out or drove him away. He deserved it. 

Head spinning, the man opened his eyes. 

The angel was sitting right next to him, staring out at the meadow surrounding the cabin. When the man moved, the angel did too, looking directly at him. The man dropped his head, unable to meet the angel’s eyes. He tensed, ready to run if that was what he had to do. 

Instead of the blow he expected, there was only a warm pressure on his shoulder as the angel’s hand rested there gently. The angel hummed something quiet and calm, completely unperturbed by the man. The man closed his eyes again, unwilling to deal with the sudden flood of tears. He blindly reached up and curled his hand around the angel’s.

He was going to be okay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Only a couple chapters remain before this fic earns its rating. 
> 
> Just to let everyone know, NaNoWriMo starts next Sunday. I am going to do my utmost to make sure that this keeps posting on schedule, but I apologize in advance if that does not happen.


	6. Of Old Flames

" _And the Lord God commanded the man, 'You are free to eat from any tree in the garden; but you must not eat from the tree of the knowledge of good and evil, for when you eat from it you will certainly die.'_ "  
Genesis 2:16—2:17

 

Their interactions changed tenor almost immediately. Instead of the guarded wariness, there was now cautious familiarity. The angel found himself forgetting to stand far away, forgetting to look away when the man met his eyes. But the man never did anything to indicate that he was uncomfortable. Rather, he drew closer as well. 

As summer drew to a close, the angel had to make the most of the bounty he had. Honey production was absolutely fantastic, the bees making so much that the angel felt no qualms about collecting more than he ordinarily would. The garden was positively overactive, thriving as the angel had never seen before. The wheat fields grew wildly, requiring virtually no work at all. There was much to be done.

The man, always on the angel’s heels, helped more than the angel had expected. All the angel had to do to summon the man, it seemed, was to make some small noise of annoyance or struggle just a little with a task. At those moments, the man would stand near with his hands in his pockets, a mocking half-smile on his face. 

It seemed that he was making fun of the angel, but he wasn’t. The key was in the man’s anxiously sliding eyes and the tension in his shoulders. The angel would step back, offering the job to the man. For confirmation that he’d done the right thing, he would see the man visibly relax as he took up whatever job the angel had abandoned. 

It was good. The angel could almost forget the things the man had once done. He wanted to forget them. He tried to believe that everything would be all right. It would. They would be fine.

***

Along with everything else, he’d forgotten what hope felt like. Now it filled him up, and it hurt, but he welcomed the pain. The man was sure, now, that he was safe with the angel. After his display the night he’d received the amulet, he’d learned that there was very little that would keep the angel from his side. It was a strange feeling, and terrifying. 

When he wasn’t helping, he watched the angel work. The smooth curve of his back as he bent over a struggling plant, the muscles of his arms as he healed an injured bird, the way his hair ruffled in a breeze. His mouth, thin and firm, that more and more often curved into a smile. The man did what he could to elicit more smiles from the angel.

Old feelings crept their way back into the man’s head, things he had forced himself to forget. Sensations, ideas, fantasies—all wordless desire and loneliness. It ached, sometimes. The hunger was so familiar that he wondered, for a while, if it wasn’t the mark coming back to haunt him again. It wasn’t. He didn’t feel the need to kill, not now. This was different. More frightening, somehow.

He was too afraid to act on the feelings. So he did what he could to help the angel with the plants and nothing more.

***

Even if the man wasn't as violent as he'd once been, he was still a predator. The angel didn’t mind a diet of plant-based foods, but the man certainly did. After a few weeks of the angel’s food, the angel was fairly shocked when the man brought a carefully butchered rabbit to the cabin. It was skinned and cleaned, ideal for preparation. The angel recoiled when he touched it, making some sort of disgusted face, and for the first time in all those weeks the man laughed.

They both froze, staring at each other, shocked by the sudden sound. The angel broke first, and smiled at the man. He shrugged helplessly. The man laughed again. He clapped the angel on the shoulder and went to build a fire.

Every few days, after that, the man would wander off into the woods, carrying a knife. The angel never followed. He had no desire to see what the man was doing. It was enough that the man came back, the light in his eyes undimmed. They ate meat sometimes, now, and the angel found that he didn’t mind. It was strange, to have company at these meals. But he liked it. 

He didn’t think too hard about how much he enjoyed watching the man after he came back from hunting, eyes sharp and bright, movements too quick, flushed and panting from the chase. Those thoughts were dangerous.

***

It all came to a head one day in the orchard. The summer was drawing to a quick close, and it would be cold sooner than the man really liked. The angel wanted to harvest some of the apples, and the man decided to help. 

The angel did all the picking, while the man carried. The man didn’t love the idea of getting up in the tree, but the angel didn’t care. He also didn’t like the angel being in the tree, but that wasn’t his decision to make. He just kept his eye on the angel, making sure that he didn’t do anything stupid.

Of course, as soon as the man stopped paying attention to the angel, something bad happened. The man turned away for a grand total of two seconds, carrying a load of apples toward the cabin, when he heard a yell and a crash.

When he turned around, the angel was lying unmoving on the ground.

For a second, the man was certain that his heart had stopped. He dropped the apples he was carrying and sprinted to the angel’s side, crashing down on his knees in the dirt. He fumbled around, feeling for a pulse, for any sign of life. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing. The man almost couldn’t breathe.

Suddenly, the angel’s eyes opened. When he saw those eyes, the man’s brain shut off. He leaned down and crushed his mouth against the angel’s in a sudden, violent kiss.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Have an early update, courtesy of Halloween! :D


	7. Of Falling

“ _Adam and his wife were both naked, and they felt no shame._ ”  
Genesis 2:25

 

At first the angel thought the man was trying to kill him.

He couldn’t even laugh about how ridiculous that sounded, later. He scrabbled, trying to throw the man off, before he realized what was really happening.

His mind caught up with his first instincts. Some other instincts joined in, and suddenly he was pushing back, biting the man’s lip hard enough to bruise. The angel felt the man’s growl. It thrummed in his chest and the angel shuddered. He pressed his hands to the man’s chest, not to throw him off, but to feel his heart pounding. His back was flat against the ground, hips pressed into the thin orchard grass where the man straddled him. The weight and friction was enough to drag a moan out of the angel’s mouth. 

At the sound, the man’s eyes narrowed. With a wicked little smirk, he bent down to press his forehead against the angel’s. He reached up, gently brushing a thumb over the angel’s face. It was such a tender thing. The angel thought for a moment that the man’s intentions might have changed, but then the man bore down on the angel, grinding them together. The angel involuntarily bucked, clutching at the man’s shoulders for some kind of stability.

The man laughed. He pressed his lips to the angel’s jaw and rolled his hips suggestively. 

Well, if that was the way the man wanted it, that was the way the angel would make it.

***

He’d imagined doing something like this for years, but he’d never imagined it would be like this. On the ground of an orchard in bright afternoon light, not a word between them. The man was quivering with pleasant tension, ready for whatever the angel damn well wanted to do. At this point, he was thrilled with what he’d gotten already.

Without any warning at all, the angel moved—rolling them both so that the man was pinned down. It felt—not right, not exactly, but better than before, less like this was all some nightmarish impulse from the mark. The angel was in control. He wouldn’t let the man do anything stupid.

Apparently the man had drifted away, because the next thing he knew the angel’s hand was pressed against the side of his face, eyes tight and concerned. The man shook it off, summoning up a smile, and nodded. He reached up to curl his hands over the angel’s hipbones, thumbs rubbing circles over the places where the jeans were thinnest. 

The angel sighed, and bent down to press his forehead against the man’s. His forearms, resting in the grass, framed the man’s vision so that, even when he turned his head, all he saw was the angel. Lucky. That was all he wanted to see.

***

For a moment, they did what they did best: stared into each other’s eyes. The angel wondered if it was really possible to get lost in the hazel-green depths of the man’s eyes, to simply fall away and never come back. He didn’t want to stop this, even if it might be better for both of them if he did. 

They were breathing the same air, breathing each other in. The angel remembered old arguments about personal space. Those were all moot now, he suspected. 

He twitched with surprise when the man’s hands moved, sliding slowly up his sides to curve over his shoulders. The angel still wore his shirt, and the man smoothed the creases in it as he moved. He pulled the angel down, demanding that they be closer. The angel made some sort of incoherently happy noise and bent to kiss the man again. 

This time was better. It was gentler, kinder, softer. Just before their lips touched, noses got in the way. It had been so long since the angel had been with anyone, he’d forgotten about turning his head. But he remembered quickly enough what he was doing. 

The man’s lips were rough, chapped by sun and work outside. Absently, the angel thought that maybe he should give the man beeswax to rub into them. Then he reconsidered. A flicker of where else those lips might go made the angel shiver, even this close to the heat of the man’s body. 

His shirt was going to have to go.

***

He was so caught up in the kiss that the angel’s sudden motion threw him off. The man grunted a protest as the angel sat up abruptly. The angel rolled his eyes, batting the man’s hands away as he tried to pull the other back down. The man was confused for a moment, but let it go when he saw what the angel was doing. Normally-nimble fingers fumbled at the buttons of the white shirt, struggling to get them undone in haste. 

The man reached up and closed his hands over the angel’s. The angel cocked his head, letting the man push his hands out of the way. 

As he gently unbuttoned the angel’s shirt, he thought about just how long he had wanted to do this. It had been since—well. Since forever, really. He’d expected to be nervous, to feel butterflies in his stomach and have hands that shook. Instead, he was calm and his hands were steady, slowly stripping the angel out of his clothes. 

The angel watched him the whole time, hands resting on the man’s sides. He smiled a little contemplative smile that drew an answering smile out of the man. 

Finally, the shirt was open. The angel shrugged it off, tossing the shirt off to one side, and the man just stared. The angel was all lean muscle and tanned planes of skin that practically glowed in the late afternoon sun filtering through the trees. He was beautiful, perfect, divine, the man thought.

He looked down at the man, and all those pure thoughts flew right out of the man’s head. The look on the angel’s face was anything but holy. 

The man was going to enjoy this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> These two, I swear...
> 
> Next chapter may face a bit of a delay--my poor beta's life has just about exploded. :(


	8. Of Love

“ _Adam made love to his wife Eve…_ ”  
Genesis 4:1

  
  


The angel stroked the man’s bare sides, all the way up from his hips to press against the muscles of his shoulders. The man was still staring, eyes roving over the angel’s body as he moved. The angel leaned down again, sliding his hands to cradle the man’s jaw as they kissed. The man’s fingertips were burning through the skin of the angel’s back, just above his jeans, pulling them closer together, if that was even possible.

Eventually the angel had to break the kiss in order to breathe. When he moved, panting a bit, the man just smiled, seeming content to wait for the angel to make the next move. His mouth was redder than usual, lips fuller, swollen by the kiss. He was breathing faster, but didn’t otherwise move a muscle. His apparent contentment was belied by his body, though, where hardness pressed against the angel’s thigh. 

He wanted to feel more of that. The angel—a bit tentatively, it had to be admitted—pressed his knees more snugly against the man’s body, shifting his weight for more friction. 

Oh.

That was good. 

The angel startled at the intensity of sensation that shot through him. His twitching was, apparently, a good thing, because the man actually groaned aloud, eyelids fluttering as he smiled at the angel. 

The angel had forgotten what it was like to enjoy touch like this, to find real pleasure in his body. His stomach twisted itself into knots with anticipation and anxiety as the man moved under him, fingers working shakily at the buttons on their jeans.

***

The man had a brief moment of wondering if this was temporary insanity before he decided that it didn’t matter if he’d lost his mind. He had the angel right here with him. He would make the most out of it while this moment lasted. 

Unfortunately, getting their jeans off required them to stand up. The angel helped the man up, and for a second they both hesitated. Then almost at the same time they moved to strip off what remained of their clothes. The man was really starting to hate these ridiculous pants. They got tangled around his legs and caught his ankles. He kicked them away at last and looked up.

The angel was right there, smiling fondly. His hair was a mess, and on impulse the man reached up to ruffle it some more. The angel laughed, grabbing the man’s hand in his, and closed the distance between them again.

It was better like this. Skin to skin, absolutely nothing between them. The man hadn’t been touched in so very long. He wasn’t sure what to do with the soft, tantalizing kisses the angel was trailing along his collarbone, or how to respond to the steady, soothing pressure of the angel’s hand in his. So he tried not to think too hard, and did what he’d wanted to do for a long, long time.

***

The angel’s breath hitched when the man’s hand found his erection. He wasn’t sure what kinds of sounds he was making, but they were good, judging by the man’s expression. 

His world narrowed down to this. Golden light spangled over them both, the shivery sound of a breeze in the orchard, the warmth of the man on his skin, the scent of sweat and apples and sex. The angel never let go of the man’s hand, preferring to keep it close to feel every whorl of his fingertips and every callus on his palm. 

The man’s hand was gentle as he worked the angel over. He backed the angel up against the apple tree—the same one from which he’d fallen, actually. The bark was smooth against his back, providing support as heat pooled in his belly and the muscles of his legs trembled. 

The only things the angel could see clearly were the man’s eyes, hazel green and bright as apple leaves in the perfect light. The angel wrapped an arm around him, pulling him close, kissing him with an open mouth and wide eyes. The man’s pace changed, hot slick hand moving everywhere and pressure was building and it was perfect, only the angel and the man, together at last, even after everything. 

He didn’t cry out when he came, only moaned something that might have been a name. Grace flared sharply, threatening to burst his vessel’s skin with ecstasy. His legs buckled and he sank down onto the grass, the man following him down and holding him through the shuddering aftershocks, whispering wordless reassurances into his skin.

***

Grace danced over the angel’s skin, burning wherever it struck the man. Despite the pain, the man folded his arms around the angel and held him close for a moment. The rising wind dried the man’s skin and he shivered, curling closer to the angel’s warmth.

The man immediately let the angel go when he moved. He wouldn’t think it wrong if the angel decided to leave. But instead the angel rested a hand against the back of the man’s neck and pulled him in for a sweet, all-too-short kiss.

When they broke apart, the man noticed with some embarrassment that, although the angel had finished, he was still hard. He reddened and moved to cover himself, but the angel stopped him with a shake of his head. The angel shifted, moving them so that he faced the man, kneeling between his legs. Leaving one hand on the back of the man’s neck, the angel began to slowly stroke the man. 

If the angel’s hand hadn’t been on the man’s neck he might have just let his head fall back and be overwhelmed with sensation. But the angel wouldn’t let him, so the man kept his eyes open and watched the angel move. His brow was furrowed slightly as he worked out a rhythm that made the man gasp and writhe, held steady only by the angel’s hand.

The angel leaned in to kiss him again, and that simple touch was enough. The man jerked once and came hard enough that the breath left his body and he could do nothing more than collapse into the angel’s arms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh God this makes me really nervous to post. But here you go anyway... *casually hides behind the tree*
> 
> Dedicated to three people. First, to my AMAZING beta reader, who despite life basically running her over with a truck managed to still get this thing checked for me. Second to my friend K, who sat with me through about two month's worth of late-night discussions of sex, Destiel, and rock'n'roll while I figured out exactly what was happening here. Third to my friend Bridget, who beat down my writer's block with the constant chant of "sex sex sex sex sex sex"...


	9. Of Sleep and Dreams

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Er. I don’t normally do long notes at the beginning of the chapter, but…I really feel like I need to say something. I was super stressed about the last chapter. Like, SUPER stressed. It took me two solid months of research, writing, and rewriting to get to the place that you all saw it. Posting it triggered a minor panic attack. Your response blew me away. You all are the best readers I could possibly ask for. Thank you so much for all your kindness and general sweetness. <3
> 
> These notes also have a **WARNING**. The fourth part of the chapter—Dean’s second POV—gets fairly gory. (He has a nightmare about the First Blade. Don’t worry, nothing bad happens to Cas!)

“ _Cursed is the ground because of you…dust you are and to dust you will return._ ”  
Genesis 3:17—3:19

 

When his legs stopped shaking and he’d come back to his senses, the angel assessed the situation. They both were grass-stained and sweaty and sticky. The sun was on the verge of going down, sliding behind the tree line past the orchard, bringing on the chill of the night. A few clouds streaked the sky, orange and purple in the sunset.

He helped the man up. Suddenly shy, the man refused to look at the angel. But the angel kissed him gently on the cheek anyway. That made him smile, and he took the angel’s hand to walk back to the cabin. The angel made sure to pick up their clothes: the man might be all right with going about naked, but the angel didn’t fancy trying to work the fields without at least a pair of pants on. 

They washed at the pump outside the cabin, splashing each other and laughing freely. The angel tried to smooth his tousled hair, but the man kept mussing it up. Finally he just let it go and accepted that he would have messy hair for the rest of time. 

As night fell completely, the angel built a fire by the cabin. They sat close to it, trading careful kisses and tentative touches, sharing secrets without words. The angel suspected that they were both trying to make up for uncountable years of loneliness. When he thought of that time, he pressed closer and did his best to forget the past.

If this could go on forever, the angel thought that eternity might not be such a bad thing after all. 

***

They stayed there until the fire was no more than crackling embers. The man could only hear crickets chirping, distant and rhythmic, interrupted occasionally by the mournful call of an owl. It was so dark that the man could see nothing but the vague shape of the angel beside him. 

When he felt the angel’s jaw-cracking yawn against his shoulder, the man decided that it was time for both of them to sleep. He pulled the angel up and led him into the cabin, where they tumbled by silent agreement into the narrow bed. They folded around each other perfectly, face to face, as if they had never belonged anywhere else. 

The man was surprised that the angel needed sleep, but perhaps it wasn’t so earth-shattering a revelation. They had, after all, had a rather strenuous afternoon. The thought made him smile, and he tugged the angel closer. The angel murmured crossly, but followed and snuggled into the man’s side. 

The man breathed easily, truly easily, for the first time in he didn’t really know how long. The angel was humming contentedly, some tune that the man knew deep in his bones. It made him feel safe, for perhaps the first time in his life, and he let his eyes close. There was no need for more tears. 

After all, he was suddenly sure that everything was going to be all right. They’d found peace. He’d finally come home.

***

The angel, though tired, lay awake for some time after the man drifted away. He could hear the man’s heartbeat, his deep slow breathing. His muscles were slack, though he never let go of the angel. This was a privilege he’d never thought he would have the chance to experience.

Their meeting was never to be forgotten, though their memories of the event differed. The man recalled only the moment when the angel had appeared to him on Earth, but the angel remembered their meeting in Hell. Some of his siblings still speculated that the man’s soul had shone despite the tarnish of Hell. 

That was a lie. 

The man’s soul was twisted and warped, as vile as any demon’s. Upon seeing the angel, the man had turned on him with instruments of torture that dripped with the blood of the damned. Their fight could have ended in the angel’s death, but he won. And he scoured the man’s soul clean, rebuilt him, complete with every flaw. And that was more powerful than an immediate connection. The angel knew the man’s many sins more intimately than any. But those flaws, those sins—without them he would not be the man that the angel loved.

So, safe in his lover’s arms, he slept.

***

The man dreamed.

He slammed the First Blade into a man’s chest and listened to him scream. Blood sprayed as he wrenched the Blade free. Ribs snapped and gobbets of flesh flew free as the man collapsed.

Bullets punched into his back, ripping open holes in his chest. It hurt, but didn't even slow him down. He charged the shooter. He smashed into her and they crashed to the floor. She screamed. He decided to stop her screaming, sawing at her jaw with the Blade, hacking it into a gruesome smile. She choked and thrashed, but eventually stopped moving.

The room was covered in blood, bright red smears and drops on the walls, pooling black on the carpet, already drying under the man’s nails and on his hands. As he watched, the bullet holes knitted themselves closed. On a whim, the man dipped his fingers into a puddle of blood and painted streaks across his face, smiling. 

He rose to his feet and approached the mirror hanging on the wall.

Black eyes stared back.

He woke up screaming.

The angel was already there, grabbing at him to stop him hurting himself. The man’s heart was pounding. His head ached. He let the angel hold and comfort him, even as he thought about what he was going to do. He had to tell the angel the truth about what he’d done. 

The mark on his arm throbbed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're closing in on the end...


	10. Of The End

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry. I'm _so sorry_. I didn't expect you all to fall in love with this story. I didn't know that people would actually care about this at all. Note that you can see the foreshadowing of this chapter as far back as the first chapter, so...this was all planned. All of this was planned. But do know as we we go into this final chapter that I do, in fact, feel like a terrible person.
> 
> Thank you all so much for reading this. Your comments and kudos mean an awful lot to me. I hope you'll maybe consider coming back after New Year's for a Sam-centered fic. If I don't see you there, then good luck and godspeed wherever your fandom travels take you. You are all wonderful. Thank you. <3

The man made sure they left early. He had to practically drag the angel out of the door, but his frantic eyes and jerky motions must have shown well enough the man’s urgency because eventually the angel just followed without complaint. The angel insisted that they both wear clothes, which the man didn’t mind. But that took time, and they had to hurry, or he would lose his courage.

He clung to the angel’s hand as they walked through the garden in the misty pre-dawn light. The angel kept looking at him, squinting with concern, but didn’t do anything to stop the man. 

At the edge of the forest, they stopped. The man’s stomach roiled and he wished, more than anything, that he were the kind of person who could lie to the angel. He stared at the trees, hunching in on himself, eyes burning and stinging. He couldn’t bring himself to take the next step. Moving would bring him into the shadows of the trees, out of the angel’s sanctuary.

He felt the angel touch his shoulder. He didn’t look up. He couldn’t face the angel, not now. But he turned and wrapped his arms around his friend. His lover. He was shaking, but the angel was as steady as a good tree in a storm, holding the man safe.

When the man finally managed to pull away, he couldn’t stop the thought that they might never embrace each other again after this.

***

The angel was becoming afraid. The man was acting strange—and the mark was livid, burning on his arm, brighter red than the angel had seen it since the man arrived. Something was very, very wrong.

As they made their way through the forest, the wind rose. It hissed and spat among the trees. Shadows danced about. The angel shivered and stuck closer to the man’s side. He had been out of the world for so long that he didn’t know what dangers lurked out here.

The sun had just reached its peak in the too-bright sky when they broke from the cover of the trees. At first the angel couldn’t believe the sight. Huge buildings, skyscrapers, were collapsed in a vast sprawl of tangled steel across the plain. It had been a city, the angel realized.

The man led him into the ruin, still clutching the angel’s hand. The angel had no idea what force was powerful enough to wreak such devastation—there was nothing on this earth that could do such a thing. It had been, perhaps, three decades since the city collapsed. The streets were cracked and broken, with trees shooting up between the cracks and vines matting themselves over fallen walls. 

Though he could hear birds crying, saw a cat lazing on a window ledge, and even spotted a few deer grazing on an overgrown sidewalk, the angel saw not one human being in that dead city. 

***

At the end of a certain alley, the man finally let go of the angel’s hand. The angel stared at him, confused and perhaps hurt, but the man bit his lip and pointed into the open boulevard ahead anyway. He knew where this was, what the angel would find here. He remembered this place perfectly.

In the distance, thunder snarled. A storm was coming. 

He thought that maybe, if he ran, he might have a chance to survive.

He wasn’t sure if he even wanted to.

The man followed the angel out into the wide boulevard, fingering the object tucked into the back of his jeans. He watched as the angel took in the sight.

This had been a massacre. People had been trying to run, panicking as buildings collapsed around them, boxed in, unable to get out. The man had found them here, and he had killed them here. All of them.

All the blood had long ago washed away, all the flesh had long since rotted, but the charnel piles of bones still remained.

***

The angel stared at the bones. Grinning skulls—young and old—sat on splintered ribs and shattered leg bones. Delicate finger bones pointed accusation from the earth in which they were embedded. Dozens on dozens of bodies.

He was cold as he turned around, away from that awful, awful pile. The man’s head was bowed, his arms slack. He didn’t look at the angel, just pulled something out of the back of his jeans and threw it on the ground between them. 

The First Blade. As much a confession as a damnation. 

The angel took a step back, staring at the man. He swallowed hard, head pounding with terror and rage and grief. His hands were shaking.

After what seemed an eternity, the man looked up. His face was tight with pain and fear. His jaw worked, and after a moment he whispered in a cracked and broken voice, “Cas…” It was an apology, a plea, a million different things all wrapped up in one humble, familiar syllable.

The angel felt something crack in his chest. Tears burned and stung at his eyes. He tried to open his mouth but the words wouldn’t come. He couldn’t think of anything to say, because how could he say anything about this? Finally he got his voice to work, and it sounded so strange, fractured and rough with disuse.

“Dean,” he managed, and stared helplessly at the man over the Blade lying on the bone-covered ground between them.

As they stood frozen in silence, the first drops of rain began to fall.

 

“ _So the Lord God banished him from the Garden of Eden._ ”  
Genesis 3:23


End file.
